Chocolate Lasagna
by Official Cake
Summary: One thing Alfred was sure of after this: he was never going to attempt drunk cooking ever again. AmeIta


Not my best work, but I don't know what drunk people even do.

* * *

Alfred raised his first glass of wine, clinking it with Feliciano's, and taking a gulp. Today was their second anniversary, and they weren't going to let it pass by without proper celebration. Alfred had wanted to host a huge party with five-tiered cakes and flamboyant colors, but Feliciano told him that he'd rather celebrate with just the two of them, and Alfred couldn't ever resist puppy eyes.  
"Cheers, to another year."  
"Si!"

After about three shots, Alfred brought out a bottle of beer, his intent clear: "Feli, we're gonna get drunker than anything and everything."  
Feliciano looked at Alfred with a dazed, confused look. "Alfred, is it safe to do this?" he inquired. "I mean, in your country you're physically underage—"  
"I can do this," said the American. "'Least I'm not Arthur. Plus, y'gotta have some time to party, am I right?"  
Feliciano nodded slowly, still cautious, and poured a glass for Alfred and himself.

"…and I was like, 'Youuuuu'rrrreeeee Canadian bakin', oh my God,'" slurred the blond after at least three glasses. "Aw, man, Fels, y'shoulda been there."  
"W-when did you shtart calling me that?" asked Feliciano. He tried it out on his tongue. "Felllllls. Feeeeelllllllssssshhhh. I don' like that name."  
"Yo, Feli, wanna try and cook sommin'?" Alfred busted out a couple of pots and pans before Feliciano could answer. "I saw a recipe somewhere on the internetsshhh—"  
The Italian nodded, still more sober than Alfred, and took a couple more shots until that wasn't true anymore. "Whaddya wanna cook?"  
"Chocolate. Motherfucking. Lasagna."  
Feliciano stumbled to the cabinet to grab chocolate chips and frosting while Alfred slammed pots and pans on a stove.  
"Get the motherfucking Nutella," slurred the American. "We're gon' shlap as much shit as we can onto this bitchhhh."  
Normally, Feliciano would take every measure to ensure the perfection of his cooking. But he was drunk, and Alfred was with him, and the base ended up more a blob of marshmallow than a square.  
Alfred cracked open a massive jar of Nutella and slapped it on the marshmallow, disregarding the recipe's portions entirely. As in, literally slapped it on. He scooped a bunch of chocolate hazelnut spread with his hand and smacked it on the marshmallow.

The brunet took another glass and ripped open the bag of chocolate chips, and dumped the entire bag onto the haphazardly-put-together first two layers. And that was a lot, since Alfred was the one who bought it. The blond didn't seem to mind, however, and lathered the chips with whipped cream.  
"Oh, baby," he sang with joy, "this is gon' be one bad bitch."  
Feliciano merely nodded and took a box of Oreos, throwing it onto the floor and stomping on it, saying "nyeh" with every stomp.  
"Feliiii, stop it," whined Alfred. "The Oreos might have feelings…"  
"Oh, no," whimpered Feliciano. "Oreos, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! I didn't mean it! I'm sorryyyyy—"  
Feliciano collapsed onto the floor, sobbing and clutching the destroyed box of Oreos while Alfred held a moment of silence for his "fallen Oreo brothers who have so bravely sacrificed themselves for the creation of chocolate… something? Egg? Pie? Thingy? Chocky thingy?"

Arthur knocked on the door, holding a gift in his hands. He could hear Feliciano sobbing inside, and he wondered what Alfred had done, before opening the door to reveal a drunken American and Italian on the floor weeping over Oreos.  
Arthur decided he shouldn't ask, and left the gift at the door.

After Alfred popped the thing in the oven, the next few minutes of waiting consisted of Alfred and Feliciano applying makeup to their faces. Alfred had applied a generous amount of lipstick while Feliciano went overboard with the blush, using items left over from female friends' visits.  
"Alfred," whispered Feliciano. "I'm gonna ask you a question."  
"Go right ahead, babe."  
"Am I a pretty lady?"  
Feliciano batted his eyelashes, resting his chin on his hands and grinning.  
"Yep," replied Alfred. "You are a very pretty lady, Fels."

The oven rang out throughout the apartment, and Feliciano stumbled to open it, Alfred following shortly. A blast of heat hit Feliciano's face, and he stumbled back onto the counter, squinting his eyes to look at the masterpiece that lay out before him:  
A mess of brown and white. It could hardly count as anything even slightly resembling chocolate lasagna.  
"It's beautiful," whispered Feliciano in awe.  
"It's a goddamn masterpiece," agreed Alfred, "from the Renavolution thing."  
"Renaissance," corrected Feliciano.  
They set the tray on the table, equipped themselves with spoons, and shoveled a heaping amount of gooey, chocolately monstrosity.

When Alfred woke up the next morning, he was confused as to why he had brown cream smeared on his face. Then, he realized he had a massive hangover, and realized what he had done the night before.  
"Feli?" he muttered, rolling over to face the Italian.  
"Yeah?"  
"Never let me do drunk cooking again."


End file.
